


Red Peppers And Honey

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Food as a Metaphor for Love, Human Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: “Hell, I’ll make you a damn fruit salad.”“With peaches,” Castiel says. “And mangoes.”“And dragonfruit,” Dean confirms. He’s already thinking of all the fruit Castiel hasn’t tried before, which isn’t a difficult reach—grapes? Has he never had grapes? How has he been human for so long, but never had grapes?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 135
Collections: Dean/Cas Tropefest 2021 Mid-Winter 5k





	Red Peppers And Honey

**Author's Note:**

> My first time posting for the Tropefest! Food as a metaphor for love is one of my favourite tropes (and has the side effect of making me very hungry while writing, haha) so here we are.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Dean stumbles across Castiel sprawled across the couch in the living room for the dozenth time, hands on his hips like a disgruntled housemaid. The TV is still on. Dean grunts, irritated, before flicking it off.

He debates waking him up, changes his mind, sidles over to the kitchen to click on the stove and crack some eggs into a bowl (that he promptly dispenses into the sink—either Cas cleans it while he’s wandering around like he sometimes does, or Sam bitchfaces at him and cleans it himself after a couple days). Sam hasn’t shown up yet and it’s already nine, so he’s probably on one of those masochistic early-morning jogs at the park. At least Castiel learned the good, healthy habits of sleeping in from Dean.

The bacon is sizzling and popping and smelling orgasmic when he hears murmurs and creaks coming from the couch, followed by the pad of footsteps.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, feeling oddly chipper this morning for no reason at all. “Sleep well?”

“I dreamt about a peach,” Castiel says gravely, rubbing his eyes to peer, squinty-eyed, into the pan. His nose twitches, and he takes in a deeper inhale. “It was huge, and I lived inside of it. It smelled like peaches every day.”

“Yeah, no duh,” Dean says. “It was a peach.”

“I hadn’t known peaches could get so big.” 

“It’s a dream, Cas,” Dean says. “They’re not real.”

“I know that.” Castiel sounds grumpy; always does in the morning. Dean takes his eyes off the stove to steal a glance, and affirms his hypothesis—tiny perpetual frown on his face and rumpled hair like alien probes. “I was merely saying that I was surprised I even dreamt of peaches that big. I’ve never even eaten a peach before.”

Dean hums non-affirmably. “I’ll pick some up next time we go out,” he decides. “Or, hey! Sam goes to the Farmer’s Market every Saturday. You can tag along, grab some of the real good, fresh stuff.”

Now that he’s thinking about it, Castiel really hasn’t had much fruit. Apples, once or twice. A banana that he tried to eat with the peel on, because _Dean, I don’t understand, I could eat the peels of the Apples._

Snorting at the memory, Dean scrapes the burnt bacon bits into the plate and divvies it up. “While we’re at it, we could get you some other fruit, too. Who knows, maybe you’ll be a geek about them like Sam is. Mangos? You like mangoes?”

“I… don’t know,” Castiel says. He’s quiet.

Dean sets the pan into the sink and turns on the tap, cold water sparking angrily as it hits the pan for an instant before the grease is rushed away. “I guess we’ll see, then.” He grabs two forks and passes one to Castiel, along with a plate of bacon.

“I like bacon,” Castiel says as they settle down at the kitchen table to eat. He sticks a strip into his mouth, bypassing the fork altogether—Sam would have an aneurysm if he knew Dean was letting him do that, but Dean just grins and watches—chews slowly and then nods, as if confirming his opinion.

“Dragonfruit,” Dean muses aloud. “I’ve always thought they looked cool. Never had one, though. Just like you.”

“Maybe we could go to the Farmer’s Market together,” Castiel offers. 

Dean looks at Castiel, sees that he’s serious, and smiles. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll ask Sam when he comes home. Hell, I’ll make you a damn fruit salad.”

“With peaches,” Castiel says. “And mangoes.”

“And dragonfruit.” Dean’s already thinking of all the fruit Castiel hasn’t tried before, which isn’t a difficult reach—grapes? Has he never had grapes? How has he been human for so long, but never had grapes? 

By the time Sam returns, gross and sweaty and all happy with the so-called _Endorphin rush, Dean, like post-hunt but without all the guns and blood_ (Dean doesn’t care what the fuck Sam says, he’s not running for fun, what is he, insane), they’ve made a list on the notes app of Dean’s phone.

“What are persimmons?” Castiel asks.

“Bless you,” Dean says.

Castiel huffs, ignores Dean. The first time Dean pulled that, when Castiel had recited the name of a particularly-tongue-twisty spellwork, Castiel had frowned and said _Thank you?_ until Sam rolled his eyes and Dean broke into laughter. “It says they originated from China. Google says it tastes like red peppers, mango, and honey.”

Dean looks up from ‘Top 10 Wacky Fruit You Need To Try Before You Die’, eyebrows lifting. “Red peppers and honey? No thank you.”

“I would like to try a persimmon,” Castiel says firmly, and—well. Dean can’t say no to that, can he. He sighs, jots it down below _Pomegranate_.

“I had one at Stanford,” Sam calls out, wandering into the kitchen. “They’re actually pretty good.”

Castiel levels a vaguely-smug look at Dean and Dean groans. _“We’ll see.”_

“Why are you talking about persimmons? Do we need them for a spell?” Sam scuttles closer, eyes brightening, the little nerd. “I think the Farmer’s Market sells them.”

“Hold your horses, Hermione,” Dean mutters. “No spells.”

Sam’s face falls. “Oh. Why, then?”

“We’re going to make a fruit salad,” Castiel tells Sam.

“Oh,” Sam says, with a significantly-different intonation. “That’s. Nice.” He side-eyes Dean. “Are you going to start fingerpainting, too?”

“Shut up,” Dean says. “It’s stuff Cas has never eaten before. Guy’s gotta try new things, shouldn’t he? He’s never had a grape before, Sam. A _grape.”_

“Dean’s never had dragonfruit,” Castiel informs Sam. “We made a list.” He stares at Dean with those laser-eyes of his until Dean grouses, pulls up the notes app to show Sam.

Sam scans down. “Wow. Uh. That’s actually kinda nice.”

Castiel smiles and Sam smiles back, and they smile at each other for a long second until Dean clears his throat, feeling an inane need to insert himself back into this conversation. “We were thinking of going with you to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam breezes.

“Is there anything you would like to try?” Castiel asks Sam. “I think Dean and I have compiled a rather large list already, but you are free to add anything to it.”

Sam blinks. “Uh,” he says. “Not really?”

“That’s okay. Let Dean know if you change your mind. The list is on his phone.”

“I’ll do that,” Sam reassures, and then turns to Dean with a sudden glint that casts foghorn warnings in Dean’s mind. “So, Dean, you’re making a fruit salad for Castiel?”

“Ye-e-es,” Dean says. Don’t you fucking dare say anything, his eyes say.

“You’re going to the Farmer’s Market with Castiel and picking out a bunch of fruit to eat and try together?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers for Dean. He’s smiling, unaware of the telepathic sibling conversation going on, all morning grumpiness distinguished. His hair is still a mess, though, sticking up all over the place, and Dean just wants to reach over and—

Sam’s looking at Dean with that goddamn look in his eye again.

“Shut up,” Dean tells him. “Go shower. You stink.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop that secret-slanted tilt in his eyes. “Alright,” he says. “You two have fun.”

“Leave!” Dean barks, and glares at Sam’s shaking shoulders as he heads towards the showers.

He still hasn’t finished his bacon, but he doesn’t really have the stomach for it anymore. It’s too salty, too fatty. He chews it halfheartedly, thinking of cherries and oranges, and adds them onto the list.

-+-+-+-

By the time Saturday comes stumbling along, the list has gotten incongruously long. Sam takes one look at it and incredulously declares that there’s no way their local Farmer’s Market has Durian, or Jackfruit, or—what the hell is a Jabuticaba?

The drive to the Farmer’s Market is filled with Dean’s music, as loud as he can handle, just to watch Sam scowl. Castiel bobs his head and taps his fingers on the window while Dean taps his on the steering wheel, in sync. Castiel cranes his head to trace the swooping lines of the power cables overhead with his eyes and says “Horses!” when he sees horses, serenely grazing in a giant grass field. Sam tells them about a possible hunt in Selina, par for the course salt-and-burn, and Castiel casually pipes up that he’s been practising at the shooting range, lately.

Sam sounds surprised and Dean just smiles, because he stumbled across Castiel fumbling with the safety two months back and nearly had a heart attack and since then, they’ve been practising together. Dean can’t say he isn’t enjoying it—holding Castiel close to him under the guise of correcting a stance, taking his hands and guiding them with a murmur in his ear. Can’t say he doesn’t watch Castiel’s gradual growth and gentle squeeze to bullseye and not feel vaguely, terrifyingly turned-on. But Castiel says that maybe he can help, with the hunt, and Dean thinks about an angry ghost chucking Castiel against a gravestone and his entire chest contracts like he’s in a straitjacket and it’s only getting tighter.

He shakes himself from the thought when they reach the market, pulling into the closest parking space he can find. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

There’s always a fuckton of people at the market since it only opens on Saturdays, and Dean’s somewhat-secret introvertedness rears its head as the three of them sidestep and parry through the crowds. He snatches up snippets of conversation regarding wildflower honey and squash season, and sends a silent, reluctant thanks to Sam for being freakishly-tall. 

Castiel is turning his head here and there like a merry-go-round, eyes like bright-blue saucer plates. He runs into three people and doesn’t even seem to notice before Dean sighs, gives up and takes his arm just so he can lead him down the stands before they get yelled at by some pissy old lady. When Sam turns around and greets them with a basket of bright-orange clementines, he raises an eyebrow at their interlinkedness and tells them the berries are in the next aisle, and Dean glares even though Sam didn’t say anything.

Then Castiel gasps, says _Dean_ and Dean has just enough time to whip his head around before Castiel is sliding his hand over to lace their fingers together and dragging him, half-falling half-stumbling, ricocheting through the hustle and bustle and tumbling out apologies all the way.

“What the—hang on, Cas!” Dean manages, and tightens his grip on Castiel’s hand until they emerge from the crowd. He’s facing a typical, slightly decrepit stand, baskets of cucumbers and apples and a strange, coral-orange creation that kind of looks like a squashed toy tomato.

“Persimmons!” Castiel sounds so delighted that the shopkeeper turns from where she was counting some change. She has a kind face that gets even kinder at the light in Castiel’s eyes.

“Today is your lucky day,” she says in a surprisingly-loud voice. “Our persimmons are right in season, and our sweetest batch yet.” 

Dean just now notices the cardboard signs— _Persimmons,_ they verify. _Fresh and juicy! $12 per basket._ “We’ll take one,” he says.

“We’ll take two,” Castiel corrects.

Dean says, “Nuh-uh. Cas, there are like, ten in a basket. We’ll never finish them.”

“Yes we can,” Castiel defends. “We can make them into smoothies.”

“Nnnno,” Dean says, remembering Sam’s smoothie addiction and how he’d spent half their icebox storage on crappy blended ice and bananas instead of beer. “No smoothies.”

Castiel pouts. He actually pouts, like a disappointed toddler or a puppy with his tennis ball taken away. “Dean.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean says. “Fine. Two baskets.” He digs around with his free hand until he pulls out a crumpled twenty; scours the bottom of his pocket for more change, comes up empty. “Crap. Sorry, Cas, I’m outta change.”

“I can give y’all a discount,” the shopkeeper says. “Twenty is fine.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, startled but pleased. He valiantly tries to smooth out the bill before handing it over, again with his free hand—he’s only realizing now, actually, that he’s still holding Castiel’s hand. Or, Castiel is still holding his hand. The two of them are still holding hands, and the shopkeeper’s eyes have that silent, secret sparkle and she’s smiling in that soft way and Dean purses his lips, thinks _Ah_ and tries to let go, but Castiel’s grip is tight and unrelenting.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Castiel says.

“That’s _Mel_ to you.” The shopkeeper slides the bill into her register before grabbing two baskets of persimmons.

“Thank you, Mel,” Castiel corrects. Dean reaches out with his free hand to grab a basket, Castiel does the same, and they bode farewell to the shopkeeper before heading once more unto the breach, craning their necks in search of Sam’s hair towering over everyone else.

They’re still holding hands. Even when Sam smiles and passes them a bag of blackberries—even when they scour the whole place for pomegranates only to come up empty-handed—even when, hours later, when Dean complains that his feet hurt and Castiel is holding back yawns, they all pile into the Impala to head back home, plastic bags stuffed with fruits and berries and vegetables that Sam snuck in somehow despite Dean’s warnings rustling joyfully beneath their feet.

Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand and watches Castiel climb into the backseat. He clenches his hand at his side for a second before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

Thing is. The thing is.

The thing is, Castiel might be a bit older than a newly-minted human, but he’s still awkward and clumsy-footed on social grounds, and maybe Dean has a huge-ass crush (it’s a few months too late for gay panic and a few weeks too late for the realization that it’s probably not a purely-aesthetic and platonic attraction to jerk off to thoughts of his best friend, and Dean’s had plenty of nights to think himself into a stupor that by now, he just takes the thought like gospel) but to Cas, they’re just holding hands. And to Cas, Dean and Sam are the only two people he’s really, really talked to that weren’t dicks with wings.

The thing is, Castiel is human now, and he can _leave_ now, no longer burdened by the golden string of grace and fate binding the two of them together. Maybe Castiel falls asleep on the couch watching TV and smiles sleepily at Dean in the mornings when he cooks them breakfast and happily settles between the two of them when they watch Game of Thrones on Sam’s laptop, but who’s Dean to say that it’s good enough. That he’s good enough for Castiel, who doesn’t—hasn’t—hasn’t had the chance to, has never even _tried,_ anything else.

It’s like the persimmons, Dean thinks, and shares a sardonic laugh with himself that’s drowned out under the drums from the speakers.

They don’t end up getting any dragonfruit, or peaches for that matter. The former because _Who the hell grows dragonfruit in Kansas, Dean,_ and the latter because it’s out of season.

“We’ll have to go back during the summer,” Sam says.

“Or,” Dean says pointedly, “we go to the grocery store and buy one.”

“They don’t taste the same,” Sam defends, and Dean rolls his eyes, but Castiel pipes up and says that he would like to try the best peaches only, and that they will have to go back during the summer.

Dean thinks about the other fruit in season by then—pineapple and watermelon and mangoes and _coconuts_. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

They get home and Dean hasn’t even cut the ignition yet before Castiel is tumbling out the seats, Sam quickly following. Dean gathers up all the leftover groceries and carries them into the Bunker to find that they’ve already strewn fruits all over the goddamn kitchen.

“It’s almost dinnertime, anyway,” Sam reasons.

Dean takes in the sight—Castiel colour-coding the fruits in precise piles across the kitchen counter, Sam opening the drawers for their knives and looking way too excited to cut up some fruit.

There’s a neat bundle of warmth in his chest and it’s pulsing out a soft glow that spreads through him, makes him smile despite himself as Cas stabs a clementine and cries out in outrage as the juice zips into his eye.

Dean rolls up his sleeves to help peel the clementines.

There are kiwis and pears and grapefruit that’s even harder to peel than the clementines. There are strawberries and apples and a squirt of lemon juice to keep them from discolouring. There are orange slices and chopped strawberries and grapes that Castiel valiantly tries to peel before realizing that both Dean and Sam are trying not to laugh, after which he frowns and scowls and throws the half-peeled grape at both of them. It hits Sam right in his giant forehead and Dean laughs so hard his ribs hurt.

With each fruit, Castiel carefully cuts a single slice, studying and then smelling it, before sticking it in his mouth. Dean watches with an irrational feeling of anticipation—it’s an _orange_ for fuck’s sake, how exciting can that be—but Castiel’s eyes light up each time, a joyful curve to his lips, stained red by strawberries and pink grapefruit and Dean wants to kiss it off of him so badly it aches.

When he eats the persimmon, Cas _beams_ like he’s shining.

“Good?” Dean asks, amused.

Castiel snatches a slice off of the counter and strides closer. Before Dean can react, there are fingers parting his lips and pushing a chunk of fruit inside his mouth.

He’s so surprised that he chews the entire thing without thinking, and sweet and tangy explodes on his tongue.

“Oh,” he says, swallowing.

Castiel has a glimmer of _I told you so_ in the askew upturn of his mouth. “Good?” he parrots Dean.

“They’re okay,” Dean settles, and grabs another slice off the counter.

“Just okay?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, they’re friggin’ delicious. Happy?”

Castiel beams again.

They eat two whole persimmons by the time Sam comes back from the washroom, and then Sam eats two whole persimmons by himself while Dean and Cas chop up the rest of the fruit.

The fruit salad is a monstrosity and takes them two days to finish, plastic-wrapped and lemon-juiced to hell in the fridge. Castiel picks out the strawberries and eats them all before Dean can get any of it, and leaves all the grapefruit for Sam to scurry out slice by slice. They both fight over the chunks of pear. Dean thinks it’s just goddamn fruit, and mostly eats it in huge bites without even looking, enjoying the bursts of varying sugar and tang.

-+-+-+-

They do go on that ghost hunt in Selina after, and Dean blames it on the natural-sugar high from the fruit that’s probably _still_ in his system that he lets the ghost get the kick on him while he’s fumbling with the lighter and cursing his slippery fingers. It’s raining; of course it’s raining.

One moment he’s telling Castiel about how much salt to use and the next he’s hurtling through the air. He has enough time to think _Sam_ and then to remember that Sam is off doing some more research about a potential occult book in the area because too many chefs in the kitchen translates into too many hunters in the graveyard, and Castiel _has_ been practising his shooting, after all, and Dean wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him. 

Oops, is the last thing Dean thinks. He slams into something unforgiving and hears an awful crack and everything goes dark for a moment. Maybe more. He’s unconscious, after all, he can’t tell. 

He comes to on his back, eeled in the hidden shadowy space between two trees and a gravestone that’s a lot fucking harder than it looks, and his hair’s dripping down his temples with blood and dew and sweat, and he’s struggling to get up thinking _CasCasCas_ when Cas explodes into sight and tumbles into the secret-space between the trees and barrels into Dean’s heaving torso.

_“Dean!”_

“In the flesh,” Dean gasps, taking in Castiel’s crazy hair and wild eyes, scanning frantically for injuries—there’s blood down his nose and streaming down one of his temples, crap—and Cas shakes, eyes flashing like a wild animal, claws his hands down Dean’s back and yanks him in, mouths and noses and teeth colliding.

 _Dean,_ he keeps saying—under his breath, mutters against Dean’s lips, trailing them down his jaw with peppered kisses, a syllable here, there. His hands flutter like birds down Dean’s spine, down his muddied jacket before pushing back his hair, rough and impatient so that he can swoop down and capture their lips together again.

Dean says nothing—can’t say anything. Doesn’t know what to say and doesn’t have the breath to say it. He threads his hands through Cas’s hair and cups his cheek to steal the touches, and he closes his eyes and breathes in Cas’s hands on his, Cas’s lips on his. The rain continues to fall, gentle and soft on their faces.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t have time to talk about it, too busy with clean-up and loose ends and the potential cops that the suspicious-eyed waitress might’ve tipped off after hearing about their ostensible graverobbing at the diner that morning. Dean insists he’s fine through Castiel’s angry words and angrier hands, but leans gratefully into his arms as they sling over his shoulder and drag him out of the muck and into the car. He’s even sprained his ankle, somehow, judging by the shooting pains when he puts his weight on it, and he mumbles half-apologies at Cas while Cas doesn’t reply; just holds onto him harder.

“I can drive,” Dean insists, but Castiel gives him a furious look and practically chucks him into the passenger seat. 

“When did you learn how to drive?” Dean murmurs, half-delirious. He may be a bit concussed. He’s had so many, it’s hard to tell at this point.

“A few weeks ago,” Castiel says. “I watched a YouTube video.” He slams on the brakes and Dean groans as they’re jolted forwards. “I don’t think this is the same kind of car.”

“Christ, Cas,” Dean mutters, and giggles. “You’re gonna get us killed.”

Castiel grits his teeth and drives faster.

So Dean’s a little too woozy on the drive back to bring up the kiss. Reaching the motel and Sam, hurrying over with wide eyes, the ache of stitches and the cold bite of ice packs, they all pass in a bit of a blur.

When he finally comes to a state of hazy awareness the next morning, he isn’t even sure if the kiss happened at all. 

He still isn’t sure when he pulls on his clothes, swearing and trying not to put weight on his right foot, images flicking through his head like a broken VCR. There’s a note on his bedstand in Sam’s handwriting, telling him he’s in the room across the hall, even though Dean’s room is a double.

Dean stumbles over to Castiel in the other bed.

He’s sleeping, snoring. Dean sees the nasty gash on his temple and staggers with guilt that swamps him so suddenly, so entirely, that it makes him want to curl up and shrivel away. 

That’s going to scar. Castiel is going to scar. Castiel is going to scar because Dean wasn’t paying enough attention, and Dean didn’t even drive them back to the motel.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear splashes against Castiel’s sleeping face. Christ. He blames it on the pain meds and blinks hard to repel them.

He brushes it off Cas’s face with a thumb. Trails slowly up his face until he’s tracing his thumb around the wound.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Castiel’s eyes flutter open.

“What for?” His voice is hoarse.

“You shouldn’t have come along,” Dean says, and Castiel’s face hardens.

“Do not blame yourself for this,” he bites. “I was the one who wanted to come.”

Dean doesn’t respond at first. He keeps his eyes on his hand that’s still trailing across Castiel’s skin.

“Cas?” His voice sounds like a baby deer; wary and shy and frightened. “Do you ever—you realize that if you want to leave, you can, right?”

Castiel goes still. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Dean swallows and hears his throat click. “You’ve only ever been with _us,_ man. Me and Sammy. And you don’t have to. We’re not. We’re not gonna keep you here if you wanna leave.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, so Dean plows on. “It’s not like when you were an angel. Team Free Will, remember? You can do whatever you want.”

“Dean,” Castiel says. Dean stops to look at him and does a double-take at the fury he sees in his eyes.

“What?” he asks, and it turns to worry when Castiel struggles to sit up. Dean rushes to steady him, propping a pillow behind his head. “Hang on, Cas, you’re still hurt.”

“Dean,” Castiel says again, and his arms tremble as they hold him up and there’s still traces of blood on his face, in his hair, but there’s steel in his voice. “Get down here. Now.”

“Why?” Dean says, bewildered, but lowers his head.

Low enough for Castiel to reach up with one of his arms and grab the back of Dean’s neck and pull him in, and they’re kissing. Again. 

Dean tastes blood on Castiel’s lips and suddenly last night’s flashbacks are halcyon and shining, and it wasn’t a hallucination after all because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget this.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Castiel asks once they part.

“What?” Dean says, breathless.

There’s a wry twist to Castiel’s mouth. “You said I can do whatever I want, right?” 

Dean nods, blurts, “But—”

It’s hard to breathe but Dean tries, anyway. He laughs shakily and runs a self-conscious hand through his hair. “It’s like the persimmons, you know? You don’t know what’s out there. You won’t ever know until you try.”

Castiel stares at Dean like he’s grown three heads. “Dean, are you comparing my feelings for you with _fruit?”_

“God, no,” Dean mutters. “But—you just got whammied by a ghost and now you have a scar, and it’s like—you’re human. You’re human like the rest of us, and you can get hurt and get sick and scar, and I just.”

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Castiel tells him. “I want this, Dean. You don’t have the right to tell me I don’t.”

Dean inhales sharply like he’s hurt.

“I’m just scared, Cas,” he admits, and it feels like a sin even to say something like that, the word foreign on his tongue.

“So am I,” Castiel says. “But I love you, and I want you, and I’m willing to get hurt for it.”

Dean watches Castiel and holds his gaze for a moment—the strength and surety and love—and it fills his own eyes like tears. He leans over, ever so careful, to kiss Castiel on the temple, just shy of where the scar will be.

-+-+-+-

They drive home before checkout at noon.

Dean thinks about the carefree way that word settles. _Home._ Like the Impala, but somehow more encompassing and staggering all at once. Home, with Sam, his brother, and Cas, his—just his. There’s a soaring feeling inside of him, like champagne bubbles, like he’s flying.

Sam knows as soon as he sees the two of them. Dean has no fucking idea how, but Sam just knows. He grins at the two of them and says, _Good thing I got another room, huh?_ and Dean blushes like a virgin while Castiel laughs.

The Bunker is cold when they enter, but the heating is quick and within hours, they’re back in their separate rooms and Dean’s thinking about what to make for dinner—what Cas would like.

He unlocks his phone and opens the notes app, taps on the one titled _Fruits for Cas_ and checks off all the ones they’ve already tried. There’s nearly half the list left, and summer’s months and months away, but they’ve got time. Dean thinks about buying honeydew and limes and apricots and Castiel’s bright, bright eyes when he gets to taste them for the first time.

The soaring feeling inside him is happiness, he realizes, pure and shot through with sunlight.

Dean’s rummaging in the fridge when Castiel wanders into the kitchen, maybe from the library, maybe from the washrooms, maybe from his room.

“Do you maybe wanna move in?” Dean blurts when he sees him, something in his chest still unlocked and hoicking out all his secrets. “To my room, I mean. The bed is a king and it’s a pretty big king, too, and I’ve got space for all your stuff if you’d like.”

He snaps his mouth shut before he can say anything else, face heating, and turns his attention back to the crisper drawer. He feels Castiel before he hears him, warm hands settling on Dean’s shoulders.

“I’d love to,” Castiel says.

“Awesome.” Dean turns around. Castiel is an inch away, smiling like he’s won the lottery, and Dean thinks he is, too.

“Hi,” Dean says, a bit stupidly. He’s staring—at Castiel’s perpetually-messy hair, at the bursts of colour in his eyes.

“Hello,” Castiel says, and Dean kisses him, and it’s easy as breathing.

“Wanna help me make dinner?” Dean says afterwards, sliding an arm around Castiel to settle on his waist, keeping him close.

Castiel makes a thoughtful sound. “What are we making?”

“Persimmon smoothies,” Dean says, and Castiel startles for a second before laughing, loud and bright and clear.

“I’d love that,” Castiel says.

I love you, Dean thinks. _I love you._ It feels so good just to think it.

And Castiel’s eyes soften like he hears it, anyway.


End file.
